


Two Feet on the Ground

by Blake



Series: Star Wars Punk AU [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: But no, Car Sex, Hardcore punk, Leia is badass, Luke is so embarrassing, M/M, Obi-Wan is washed up, Punk AU, because I said so, embarrassing virgin, it takes place c. 2010, straight edge, straight edge discourse, you'd think this takes place in '77
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Han can tell it's Luke's first punk show.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Han Solo
Series: Star Wars Punk AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644880
Comments: 25
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is written by me, this basically takes place unofficially at 924 Gilman around 2010, and Rebel Alliance basically unofficially sounds like [Punch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bPGjOZryTA). Um, straight-edge is a branch of hardcore punk about being The Most Punk by NOT doing drugs, and Ian MacKaye is credited with founding that idea, but more on that in the '80s Obi-Wan/Anakin prequel story...
> 
> Thank you Jen for editing and cheerleading!!! Tumblr post for this story is [here](https://newleafover.tumblr.com/post/610871071209570304/two-feet-on-the-ground-by-blake-10k-explicit).

Han crosses his ankles and leans back against the sticky wall, breathing in the comforting aroma of spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke. He spends at least three nights a month here, but he still can’t figure out how Lando does it: owning a _technically_ all-ages venue while still managing to make a profit off of alcohol sales. _All that white-boy angst has a lovely habit of going unregulated,_ Lando is prone to saying on the rare occasion that he actually shows his well-groomed, obnoxiously handsome face at his own club.

Han can relate to that sentiment a little—as much as a white guy can, he figures. He makes his few bucks sitting on the sidelines of these punk shows, laughing at the dumbass kids trying to get into trouble for the fun of it, the same way he did when he was a teenager, seven whole years ago. If it’s not dumbass kids, it’s guys his own age who still throw themselves into it, spinning around in circle pits like confused lab rats, not realizing they’re too old to look like anything but fucking idiots.

If it’s not the dumbass kids and the fucking idiots his own age, it’s the creepy geezers reliving their glory days, like Old Ben at the back of the crowd, bobbing his head like a metronome that’s been going strong for fifty years, keeping up with the beat, which is probably the only thing he can hear through his orange ear plugs. Han has never been here and _not_ seen Old Ben, and he highly doubts that it’s because the band he works for is Old Ben’s favorite. It’s like the guy has no life outside of remembering his straight-edge days in the ‘80s while drinking “water” out of an aluminum bottle and fancying himself some kind of mentor because he has blacked-out Xs tattooed across his calf that are faded enough to suggest that he was actually _in the pit_ of the legendary hardcore shows that these dumbass kids _dream_ of having been able to attend at the tender age of negative-seventeen. Han has heard the story of the time Old Ben slept on Ian MacKaye’s grandma’s couch more times than he can count without completely going insane.

Han scoffs to himself, looking around the room for Old Ben, just for the hell of it. It’s not like he’s got anything else to do for another solid twenty minutes. The next band hasn’t even finished setting up yet, and once they’re done, he’s far from nervous about setting up Wookie Planet’s gear on a time crunch. He’s set up their shit at this particular club so many times he could do it blindfolded. Hell, he knows the height of Chewie’s mic stand and the exact Tetris puzzle of fitting all the gear into the van better than he knows a single one of Wookie Planet’s songs, which he has always found completely unintelligible, despite reading the lyrics his buddy Chewie writes out in pencil before anyone else even gets to see them. It’s all that guttural screaming, or all that deafeningly chugging guitar, or the constant cymbal crashes that passes as a rhythm section. It’s just not exactly Han’s cup of tea.

Eventually, he spots Old Ben at the back, far enough from the stage to not get entangled in any pit nonsense, but close enough to get flung with an occasional drop of sweat from the dumbass kids pinwheeling and thrashing around and kicking each other in the face. It’s easy enough to see across the small room with the lights up between sets. The old man still has his ear plugs in, despite the only noise being a tinny Filth track spilling from the speakers and the occasional blaring of the next band very inexpertly tuning their own instruments. Han laughs to himself and shifts his weight, reversing the cross of his ankles. He may not know what he’s doing with his life, but _at least_ he’ll never end up like that old creep, stuck in the same room, stuck listening to the same music, stuck with nothing but memories as stale as the stink of smoke stains on the walls.

Han is _going places_. That’s why he took this roadie gig for Wookie Planet five years ago, because it means getting to drive the van all over, a tank full of gas bought and paid for, a pedal under his feet, and no need to brake on those long stretches of freeway. A new city every night, a new motel carpet under his head; he’s not important enough to need his own bed, and he sure as hell isn’t going to share with some grimy, long-haired, long-bearded musician.

The long stretches between tours get a little old, when he’s back at work at the grocery store and hauling gear to the same old stage at Lando’s every weekend, seeing the same faces that age him a whole year every time he looks at them.

Han’s so busy glaring at this version of a stagnant old punk that he never wants to become that he doesn’t even notice the kid approaching Old Ben until the old man is actually _taking out his ear plugs_ to turn and talk to him.

Han has never seen this kid before, but he’s seen his _kind_ before, that’s for sure. Professionally-cut blond hair. Crooked eyeliner that somehow manages to look nervous. Brand-new, unfaded blue denim jacket with a crisp backpatch. Han can’t see the backpatch from this angle, but he’d bet ten bucks it’s either Council or Sick In The Head. One of those old, safe bands to like, disreputable in absolutely zero circles just because they existed for two years in the early ‘80s. Han looks the kid up and down, taking in the upright posture and slight babyish pout to his pink lips, and changes his bet to just Council, no S.I.T.H. Kids like this one love that self-righteous, clean-cut, suburban stuff, love rebelling by drinking milk instead of smoking weed. S.I.T.H. is probably too dark and experimental to be his favorite band. 

This kid is the most embarrassing thing Han has seen in a long time, and Han spends almost every weekend surrounded by teenagers who spend two hours putting green dye and glue in their hair because they don’t have to get up for work in the morning. This kid doesn’t really look like a teenager, though. Han would put him at twenty, maybe eighteen at the youngest. He looks too showered to be a high schooler.

So, a twenty-year-old at what is clearly his first punk show in squeaky clean denim and way-too-wide eyes in all that borrowed eyeliner. Han wonders if he borrowed the eyeliner from a sister, perhaps a mom. Definitely not a girlfriend, Han wagers, based on the way the kid’s body keeps somehow getting closer and closer to the old man, staring in rapture, like he actually _likes_ the story about the time Old Ben slept on Ian MacKaye’s grandma’s couch, like he thinks it’s _hot_.

It’s stupidly embarrassing. So embarrassing that it wraps almost all the way back around to being cute.

Han shoves his hands into the stupidly tight pockets of his skinny jeans, wishing he had a smoke, even though he’s not a smoker. Must be the nicotine stains in the walls getting to his head, or else the urge to have something to do with his mouth.

It’s not that he’s lonely, he just hasn’t gotten laid in a really long time. His lifestyle doesn’t make room for much of that. Contrary to popular belief, touring with a band doesn’t mean a different groupie every night when “touring” means two weeks spent with a smelly, hairy metalcore band and the rest of the year spent living with your parents and working overtime for minimum wage.

He turns his head away from the sight of the embarrassing pretty boy over toward the bathroom, toward anything else. But then the lights shut off, mic feedback shrieking through the otherwise quiet room, and there’s a stupid, stupid emptiness in Han’s gut that feels too much like regret at the loss of the sight of dirty-blond hair and an annoyingly sincere intently-listening expression.

The band is shit. When you’re opening for local favorite Wookie Planet, who is opening for actually-on-a-record-label powerviolence band Rebel Alliance, who is opening for veteran-headliner hardcore punks The Force, you’re expected to be shit. They _actually_ look like unwashed high schoolers, and they sound like this might be the first time they’ve played outside of their dad’s garage.

They’re hurting Han’s ears, so he makes his leisurely way to the back of the room, away from the speakers. The soles of his boots are sticking to the beer-permeated floor, and that’s probably the only reason he slows down near the vicinity of where he knows Old Ben and that kid were standing a few minutes ago.

Once he’s leaning against the back wall, he can see silhouettes cast by the stage lights. There’s a small ocean of people standing still, everyone too cool to dance to a shit-quality band except for that couple of teenage maniacs who always throw it down for every single opener. Behind them, the shape of Old Ben’s bald-shaved head bobbing to the beat. And beside him, the jostling shadow of fine hair moving as the new kid bobs his head to the exact same beat. Han amuses himself with trying to make out whether there’s a Council patch on the back of his jacket, but it’s so dark that he ends up just eyeing the curve of the kid’s prominent deltoids pressing against the seams of too-tight denim. The stage light doesn’t reach his ass, but Han looks where it probably is anyways, imagining that it’s pretty tight, round, and muscular as well.

Han doesn’t dare to hope that the band might actually be done until the house lights turn up again. And then when they _do_ come up, signaling the blissful end of the set, his relief is replaced quickly again with dread.

It’s not the way the kid is standing so close to Old Ben, looking up at him with _daddy issues_ written all over his face. It’s not the machine-stitched Council backpatch or the muscular ass in tight jeans that were probably borrowed from the person with the eyeliner.

It’s the fact that Han unmistakably _wants_ him. It’s very disappointing.

Han should probably go make himself useful on stage—the sooner that band cleans up, the sooner Wookie Planet can play, and the sooner Han can leave—but Old Ben picks that moment to open up his “water” bottle and take a swig, and it’s in the confused look of betrayal that crawls slowly across the kid’s face as he presumably realizes Old Ben is not, in fact, the straight-edge mentor he presents himself to be that Han sees his opportunity. Han is _terrible_ at seeing an opportunity and not taking it.

He runs up and slings his arm over the boy’s shoulders, squeezing tightly. “Hey, babe, come on, I’ve only got five minutes.”

Something about a total stranger coming up, grabbing him, acting real familiar must surprise the guy, because he tenses up and almost squirms away while Han steers him toward the back door.

He’s actually short enough to shrug out from under Han’s arm and look up at him with an affronted expression. “My name’s not _babe_ ,” he says, defiance softening only momentarily when his eyes drop to the neckline of Han’s low-buttoned flannel shirt. “It’s Luke.”

“Well, Luke, _babe_ ,” Han starts, crossing his arms over his chest just to watch those light blue eyes drop down and widen again, “You’re welcome.”

“For what?” Luke’s voice squeaks when he’s flustered. It’s cute. “For non-consensually groping me and making assumptions?”

Han swallows a grin, refusing to let it show. He wonders who gave Luke a safety and consent talk, and if it’s the same person who lent the eyeliner and skinny jeans. This is not the kind of vigilance that comes from experience. “For saving you from having to hear about the time that old drunk slept on Ian MacKaye’s grandma’s couch three more times.”

Luke closes his mouth, like he was about to defend himself but actually stopped to think for a second. Then, “Well, I bet _you_ never slept on Ian MacKaye’s grandma’s couch.”

“No,” Han says, trying to sound bored, instead of like he’s trying to impress anybody. He looks toward the stage, where the last band is finishing up putting away their gear. Time to make his move. “Because _my_ band actually puts up for a motel when we tour.” He’s confident that the glamorous _I’m with the band_ hint will land hard on such an impressionable kid, so he walks up to the stage to start his unglamorous work, the back of his neck burning with how hard Luke is staring. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows so that his forearms are visible while he starts hauling amps up the small staircase to the stage. He glances stealthily over the mic stand he’s adjusting to see if Luke’s watching, and he is, standing still in the middle of the sparse crowd with his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. It lodges a splinter of heat in the base of Han’s spine, and he struggles not to smirk. He’s never attempted to pick up a guy quite in this fashion before, so it’s crazy that it sort of seems to be working. He’s just never really run into someone quite so gullible who’s also grown up enough to be kind of hot. There’s a first time for everything.

There’s a first time for _everything_ , he thinks again, looking over at Luke and wondering if he’s ever had his dick sucked before. Probably not. He’d probably fall apart completely and come in thirty seconds. Han has to look away and focus on getting Chewie’s guitar hooked up before _that_ train of thought sends him flying off a cliff. Still, his mouth is watering. It’s been a long time.

By the time the whole band has tuned their instruments and checked then volume on everything, Han is both antsy to get off the stage and reluctant to give up his temporary place in the spotlight. In just a second, Luke might be enraptured by Wookie Planet’s deafening metal-ish guitars and down-tempo growling. Unless Han plays his cards right.

The house lights go down a few seconds after the noise starts. In the dim spill-over light from the stage, Han makes a big show out of rolling down his sleeves and shrugging on his patched-up hoodie before heading to the back door and swinging it open wide. He looks back at the area in the darkness where Luke was last standing, not really hoping to see anything but hoping to be seen looking, and then steps out into the foggy night.

There’s something sobering about the sound of satanic growling muffled through a brick wall. Making Luke choose between watching the band and following a near-stranger out into a dark alley might not have been the best move, but Han refuses to question his choices. He remembers the six pack of beer in the van and tells himself that’s what he came out here for, anyways. He finds the van and slides open the door, sitting on the edge of it with one knee propped up in what might be an inviting pose, if anyone were to come and find him there.

A blond head pokes tentatively out the door, flooding the alley with a rush of loud music. Han smiles to himself, pulling a can out of the cooler and popping it open. Luke follows the sound, eyes locking on Han just in time to watch him swallow a mouthful of foaming pilsner.

The warm spread of alcohol on an empty stomach makes up for the disappointment of watching Luke turn his head left and right, as though looking nervously around the alley for someone _besides_ Han. There are a handful of other people out here, sure: the headliner bands hanging out by their own vans, too famous or pretentious to mingle with the crowd and watch the opening bands. But they’re not going to look twice at a kid in a brand-new denim jacket sneaking out into Wookie Planet’s van. Punks might be homophobic, but they’re not especially observant about anything but their own appearances.

Finally, Luke sends him a subtle nod of acknowledgement, letting the door slip shut behind him and shutting most of the music out with it.

Now that Luke has officially made the first move, Han sends him an ironic, condescending smile and turns in on himself, taking a long, long sip of beer and waiting for Luke to come embarrass himself further and lay himself at Han’s feet.

Luke doesn’t do quite that, but he does come up to the van, resting his arm across the top of the open door and leaning into one hip, not far from Han’s face. “Got another one of those?” Luke asks, voice high but richer sounding now that he’s not shouting over loud music.

Han leans his head back against the van door, tilting up to look at Luke and the patch of armpit hair and side-torso skin that’s visible with his arm propped up like that. “Depends. You old enough to drink?” He doesn’t give a shit if Luke is old enough to _drink_ , but giving him a hard time _and_ making sure he’s not secretly jailbait is killing two birds with one stone.

Luke flushes a little, and Han is relieved the kid is at least smart enough to know what Han’s really asking. “I’m almost twenty,” he answers after a moment, voice soft and confessional enough that he couldn’t be telling anything _but_ the truth.

So he’s not old enough to legally drink, but it’s good enough for Han. He holds up his own chilled beer can in offering, curious to see if Luke will actually drink it. “How old are you?” Luke asks, closely studying the mouth of the can as if he could see Han’s germs on it or something.

He doesn’t take a sip until Han says, “Thirty,” which is quite a bit older than he really is, but he has to keep his aura of mystery somehow. Luke’s throat is pretty when he swallows, some kind of consent to their fake age difference. Han remembers being nineteen, remembers not being able to tell the difference between a 25-year-old and a 40-year-old. “So you’re not actually straight-edge,” Han observes, honestly surprised that Luke wanted to drink beer and wasn’t just using it as an excuse to stand there. 

Luke looks at the beer again, at this point avoiding meeting Han’s eyes. “Not yet, anyways. I’ve been thinking about it.”

Han waves a hand dismissively, reaching back to the cooler for another can. “That scene’s dead, all that morality bull crap. I _do_ drink,” he says, upending the old straight-edge anthem and opening the new can for emphasis. “I _do_ smoke. And I _do_ , definitely, fuck.”

Luke’s blue eyes widen predictably at that last syllable, even though he must have seen it coming. His skin darkens a little, flushing with drink or shame when he lowers his gaze again, flat-ironed hair shifting over his forehead. “Straight-edge people have sex,” he explains, as if he’s spent a lot of time thinking about this very recently, because he’s only very recently started listening to classic straight-edge hardcore albums and analyzing their meaning like sacred texts, like all baby straight-edge kids do. “It’s just about being mindful of your actions and having sex when it’s _meaningful_.” His eyes flash scary bright, almost violet, when he looks up at Han again. It strikes fear in Han’s chest, sure—any threat of being tied down and forced into a serious commitment would. But Luke’s so non-threatening, it’s easy enough to shrug off. Plus, his sincerity is weirdly cute, even if it should be obnoxious.

Leaning up close enough to reach out and press his beer against Luke’s in the trashiest toast ever, Han lowers his voice to murmur suggestively, “First time’s always meaningful.”

Luke kind of gasps in surprise but doesn’t protest Han’s assumption, clearly too overwhelmed by the attention he’s getting to do anything but give into it at this point. He kind of falls into a seated position opposite Han, on the other end of the van’s open side, his weight sliding the door the rest of the way along its groove with a dramatic clanking sound. Luke visibly latches onto the conversation prompt, anything to stay afloat. “God, this thing is a piece of shit,” he grumbles, looking around the inside of the van like it personally tried to injure him.

Han’s the one injured, though. Nobody insults his van except _him_. He’s fixed up her engine and pushed her past 100 mph enough times to earn the right. “Hey, she’s not much to look at, but she’s got it where it counts.” He may or may not spread his legs ever so slightly, pushing up against the button fly of his jeans. He may or may not do that, but Luke _definitely_ looks. “ _And_ she’s fast. Could probably get you to the moon and back before the band even ends their set.”

There’s a pretty shine in Luke’s eyes and a gloss on his lips after he licks them unconsciously, staring at Han’s dick so intently that it’s actually starting to swell pleasantly against the denim. “You can’t drive to the moon,” Luke points out, failing to sound as in control as he’s probably trying to.

“Well, why don’t we just stay right here, then.” Han sets down his beer and leans in, brushing close enough to Luke to make him think he’s going to be the first one to touch. Instead, he grabs the edge of the sliding door and pulls, making Luke choose to bring his legs into the van or step out once and for all.

Luke’s legs swing light and easy into the van, and the door slides firmly shut. The overhead light turns off automatically after a few quiet, shared breaths. Han can taste Luke’s mouth from across the short distance, bitterness of beer and saltiness of sunlight and sweat, but clean and bright, sharp enough to set Han’s mouth watering again.

He almost forgets they’re not quite kissing yet until Luke whispers, “Can I kiss you?” like they’re sweethearts parked on Lovers’ Lane instead of in the back alley behind a dingey punk club. Or maybe like he’s worried he’s supposed to get straight to the cock-sucking part, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Han laughs. He may be desperate, inviting weird, embarrassing guys into to a van that’s not even his, but he’s not exactly the rough-and-ready anonymous-sex type that Luke might see him as. Not that he’s the Lovers’ Lane sweethearts type either, but—

“I thought you’d never ask,” Han answers, sliding his hand into Luke’s hair and greedily feeling for the softness there, cupping the back of Luke’s skull and encouraging him to tilt into the pressure.

Luke kisses sweet and firm, searching for more before they even get started. Han feigns resistance to that impatient tongue for just a second, but then he forgets why he should even bother when the inside of Luke’s mouth tastes so good.

“What’s your name?” Luke asks a full eternity later, when Han’s lips are already starting to go numb from biting kisses, and he’s somehow ended up with his back against the middle seat and a full-grown man straddling his lap.

It takes him a minute to realize it’s a real question and what it means. Had he really never given a name? Had Luke really stuck his tongue down the throat of someone whose name he didn’t know?

“Name’s Han,” he answers before taking Luke’s lips between his own again.

“Han,” Luke moans thoughtfully into their shared breath. Probably trying it on for size, imagining shouting it when he comes his brains out, Han thinks, getting harder and smugger by the second.

But then Luke goes still, Han’s kisses falling onto his lips like they’re made of stone. “Han Solo?” he hisses.

Han opens his eyes enough to see a little furrow in the center of Luke’s brow. Slowly catching on, he says, “Yeah. Heard of me?”

Whatever was bothering Luke appears to resolve itself, his face melting into soft hunger again as he nuzzles his face against the scrape of Han’s jaw. “Yeah. My sister _warned_ me you were a narcissistic asshole.” His barely-there voice fades into laughter, cool air across Han’s neck.

“Your _sister_?” He wracks his brain, trying to think of what girl he could have pissed off who could possibly be related to _this_ hot mess of erupting gay desire on top of him.

Apparently unwilling to say his sister’s name while grinding down against Han’s hips like he was before, Luke sits up a bit and says, “Yeah, Leia. From the band that’s coming on after yours, Rebel Alliance.”

Now it’s Han who has gone still as stone—with fear. “ _Leia?”_ he asks, picturing the tiny but fierce force of nature that is the frontwoman of Rebel Alliance. The woman who screams about wanting to kill men. The woman who screams so hatefully that Han actually doesn’t even know what the lyrics are about, but it _sounds_ like she wants to kill men. The woman who jumps off the stage and into the pit multiple times every set, even though it’s just asking to get punched in the head or knocked to the floor. The woman who almost chewed Han’s head off once because he offered to help her all-female band set up their equipment. “ _That_ ’ _s_ your big sister?” he asks, looking again at Luke’s face in the dim leak of streetlights, hoping to find some proof that he hasn’t just endangered his own life by going after the virginity of the kid brother of a woman who could probably have him permanently banned from the venue because _she_ has a record contract and also an extremely persuasive way of talking. 

“We’re twins, actually,” Luke says, as if it’s an interesting fact that Han might be curious about. “It’s okay, though.” Luke grinds down against Han’s lap again, giving pressure that is very much not wanted now that Han is kind of busy worrying about Leia walking by and seeing them and deciding to pummel Han into the pavement. “She’s busy getting ready for her set.”

“Right.” Han closes his eyes tightly, not wanting to believe he’s about to push a willing and eager partner off his lap. “I actually gotta do that, too. Gotta get going. The guys’ll need me any second now for break down.”

It’s dark enough that Han can’t _quite_ make out the hurt on Luke’s face. “Oh, right.” There’s sarcasm in it, but Han can tell it’s a coverup for something else.

Han tongues around the inside of his own mouth, tasting traces of Luke’s breath, as he awkwardly climbs out from under him and shoves open the van door. He stumbles out into the alley, looking both ways for anyone who might want to kill him.

It’s totally unreasonable that he’s disappointed Luke doesn’t stop him from slipping back into the club.

Wookie Planet’s set _does_ end two minutes later. Each of their songs goes on forever, but they only have two EPs’ worth to play. Han focuses on his good timing and not the fact that he’s too cowardly to hook up with the brother of a woman he’s a little bit scared of. By the time he brings the first amp to the van, Luke is gone, just two empty beer cans on the ground by the open door.

The problem is that Han keeps remembering how good it felt to kiss the guy, how good the sex was promising to turn out. Old Ben keeps looking over at him with a smug look on his face, like he knows exactly what’s going on and it amuses the shit out of him. Maybe Old Ben just always looks like that, and Han is only noticing now because he keeps scanning the crowd for a head of straightened blond hair, tousled a little from some rough handling and pulling. There’s still some sweat cooling low on his back, and the fact that kissing a 19-year-old had him more worked up than hauling heavy equipment under hot stage lights has him says a thing or two about this particular 19-year-old.

Han evacuates the stage as soon as Wookie Planet’s stuff is gone, not wanting to risk looking remotely like he’s trying to help a group of perfectly capable, independent women set up their own gear. Thankfully, they’ve opened for Rebel Alliance enough times that Han knows Leia pretty much keeps herself hidden until the first song starts, for maximum impact. Still, he gets a completely unwarranted eviscerating glare from Cara, the band’s drummer, who is buffer than Han will ever be and who is always the one diving into the pit to pull Leia out when the bodies really start piling on.

He doesn’t realize how much he was worrying until Luke comes in through the back door and Han feels relief hit his veins. At least he didn’t fuck the kid up enough that he’d miss his sister’s show. Han finds himself wondering what took Luke so long to come see one of Leia’s shows. Rebel Alliance has been playing this venue for years, but apparently twin sibling bonds aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Then Han realizes that he’s spending time and energy imagining the life story of a guy he’s decided _not_ to hook up with. He turns to the stage and waits for the band to start playing, or for one of his friends to come and distract him, or for something entertainingly idiotic to happen.

Rebel Alliance finally starts like a punch to the gut, just like always. Their songs sound like a jackhammer running for thirty seconds at full speed and then slamming to a stop. Leia pops up out of nowhere and runs around the stage like a loose cannon, screaming and sending chills of fear running down the spines of probably every person in the venue. There are a couple dozen people up at the foot of the stage screaming along and pumping their fists in the air, but Luke is not one of them. Han isn’t sure if or why he thought Luke might be one of them. Maybe newly converted punk fervor, family enthusiasm, or something, but it takes him a full scan of the crowd before he finds where Luke _has_ ended up: leaning on the wall by the bathrooms, head drooping, a bitter expression on his face.

So much for not ruining the kid’s night.

Guilt washes over Han as quickly as relief did just a few minutes ago. Han never really thinks of himself as someone who’s likeable enough to inspire feelings of abandonment. But, he supposes, if he were a 19-year-old about to lose his virginity at his first punk show, and then the guy he was making out with ran away without explanation, he’d probably be upset, too. He probably wouldn’t wear it on his face so obviously, he’d more than likely smother the feeling in some other sensation, but he’d probably feel it on some level all the same.

It’s distracting, how sad Luke looks, such a contrast to the alert, excited expression he was wearing at the start of the night. He doesn’t even raise his head to notice Han staring at him. He’s not even nodding his head to the beat of the songs he must have heard a thousand times in the garage of the quiet, suburban house Han is imagining him in.

There he goes, wasting time thinking about Luke’s life story again.

In the middle of the set, while Leia jumps off the stage and screams so loudly about fascist pigs that there’s a ten-foot radius of stillness around her, Luke slips away into the bathroom. That can’t be good. Nobody leaves in the middle of a set unless they hate the band or they’re depressed.

Maybe Han’s so good at making out he can send guys spiraling into severe depression.

He follows Luke into the tiny, otherwise empty bathroom. He’s terrible at seeing an opportunity and not taking it. Inside, Luke is taking his time washing his hands, soaping them up, rinsing them off, and then adding more soap. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s not alone until Han comes up beside the sink and plants a hand on the grimy, scratched mirror. “Hey, sorry about back there,” he starts, without having any idea where he’s going with this.

Luke is startled enough for his eyes to widen but not enough to stop washing his hands. “It’s okay. I’m used to it,” he says, nudging the faucet toward the hot water side until there’s steam rising.

“Used to being abandoned by asshole guys who lead you on and then leave you alone in their vans?” Han asks, baring his very soul. He can’t believe that could be what Luke is talking about, but right now, he’s more interested in making it clear that he knows exactly how shitty he was than he is in hearing about other guys Luke has kissed.

“No,” Luke says darkly, just loud enough to be heard over the blaring music coming in through the walls. He shuts off the water, shakes his hands out, and reaches for a towel from an empty towel dispenser. Han untucks his flannel shirt from his pants and offers it up, but Luke just grinds his teeth and lowers his pretty blue eyes to the sudsy drain. “It’s just, she’s always first at _everything_. Like, she’s so fucking successful, she’s got people who have _tattoos of her lyrics_ , and she got into better colleges than me but decided she didn’t even want to go, and, like, most of the time, I’m just happy for her, because I love her, and she deserves it all. But then, it’s like—”

Han tries not to blink, making himself available as a listener even though this whole monologue has taken him completely by surprise. Apparently Luke is independently upset about his sister being cooler than him, and Han’s not responsible at all for ruining his good time? It seems too good to be true, so Han just stands silently, still offering his shirt out as an option even though Luke’s hands have probably air-dried by now.

Luke hangs his head dramatically and then flips it back up, staring Han in the eye, pupils disappearing into light blue in the overhead fluorescent light. “The first guy I like and really think I have a chance with ends up being my sister’s ex? That’s just fucking unfair.”

Han shakes his ears out, trying to hear that in a way that makes sense. “What?”

“I can put two and two together, you know,” Luke yells defiantly. “I may be inexperienced, but I’m not an idiot.”

Han scoffs, instinctually moving his body to block Luke from running out the door without explaining but kind of caging him in against the sink in the process. “I’ve always been bad at math. Explain it to me?” he asks, fighting the urge to rub his thumb across the dimple where Luke’s biting the inside of this cheek.

“You won’t fuck me because you’re hung up on my sister.”

Han laughs to himself, shaking his head, because it still doesn’t make sense. Luke must have jumped through some real tiny hoops to get here. “I’m not hung up on your sister, I’m terrified of her.”

Luke pouts so pretty, sweat beading in the valleys of his shaved upper lip. “Terrified of pissing off your ex-girlfriend.”

“No, just terrified of her because I talked to her one time, and it was scary.” Han crosses his arms over his chest defensively, because that’s more vulnerability than he’s used to admitting, even facetiously.

Luke gives him a long, intense stare, trying to figure out if Han’s telling the truth. It’s really uncomfortable, and Han kind of wants to just kiss him and forget about this conversation, to deal with the consequences later. Luke rubs his lips together, considering, and says in a self-deprecating voice, “Well, still, you won’t fuck me because of my sister.”

“You mean because I’m a coward,” Han corrects, impulsively moving to comfort and then immediately regretting it as soon as he sees the self-satisfied smile spreading across Luke’s face. Han wants to be annoyed, but he’s honestly pretty endeared. “You got me, I admit it...I’m a coward, a total chicken. Happy? Satisfied?” he asks, dragging it out as long as it takes to get Luke’s whole face to erupt in a bright grin.

Here he is, wasting time and energy trying to make a cute boy smile, a boy he’s decided _not_ to hook up with. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like such a waste.

“I’m not happy,” Luke says thoughtfully, “And I’m not satisfied.” He looks pointedly down at the open top of Han’s shirt again. Han hopes the heat that breaks out over his skin isn’t visible as a flush across that particular patch of skin. “But I’m better,” he says, and it’s so decisive that Han actually believes him.

“Wanna go watch the rest of the set?” Han suggests, telling himself that his suggestion isn’t nervous avoidance. “They’re really good...your sister’s _amazing_ ,” he tries joking cautiously, relieved when it works and Luke laughs.

“Yeah, fine,” Luke huffs, pushing past, leaving a trail of the scent of his breath behind him as he moves through the bathroom door.

So they stand near the wall, watching silently as the crowd’s excitement continues to build at the exceptional performance Rebel Alliance is known for. Han keeps one eye on Luke, to make sure he’s having a good time, and he seems to be doing just that. Even when Leia gets swarmed by fans and pulled down onto the floor, and the song dissolves into muffled vocals and meandering guitars because the drummer just jumped down to rescue her. Even when he almost bites his own smile off in embarrassment because Leia dedicates a song to him: “This one’s for my brother, it’s his first punk show, and, yes, he’s kind of lame, but he’s also more punk than any of you shitheads could ever hope to be. This one is ‘I Killed the Death Star.’”

By the end of the set, Luke’s spirits are apparently lifted high enough that he happily runs up to the stage to hug his sister. Han feels weirdly proud and tender about having played some part in Luke enjoying his first punk show.

A buzzing in his pocket saves him from dwelling on the feeling too long. He pulls out his beat-up flip-phone and reads a text from Chewie, something about the van and getting up early in the morning. Han barely reads the words, he just stares at the screen, rubbing his thumb over the exit key and thinking about how he could have gotten Luke’s number by now if he’d thought to ask earlier.

He’s not actively expecting Luke to come back to him in this spot, but it feels kind of inevitable when it happens. Luke looks up at him wearing a coy smile, like he’s somehow figured out that Han thinks he’s dangerously cute.

Han opens his mouth with the intent to say something snarky, but the room goes dark and erupts in excited screams. He can’t even see Luke’s face anymore. The buzzing energy around them drowns out Han’s thoughts, but there’s some lingering, unexamined need to put Luke back in the light. Luke goes easily, arms flexing under Han’s touch as he’s steered toward the bright, swinging door to the men’s room. They’re swimming upstream, pushing against the people running out from the bathroom, shouting the lyrics to the song that’s just beginning to start on the stage.

When they finally get inside, it’s just quiet enough to talk, the music outside barely muffled by the door. It’s also just bright enough under the dim overhead light to get lost in Luke’s eyes, which are just as blue as Han remembers. He looks all over Luke’s face and neck, gaze catching on so many different places he’d like to put his mouth.

Luke’s lips part, and Han thinks he might not have to say anything at all before they get back to the kissing, but then Luke asks, “Do you have a phone? I could give you my number.”

Han _should_ feel disappointed that Luke is starting some kind of goodbye, or else annoyed by the prospect of pushing past Luke’s pretenses to get them moving forward with their night. Instead, his first instinct is _embarrassment_ , like he’s been caught being more invested in their time together than Luke is. It’s a vulnerable and horrible feeling, so Han dodges away from it completely.

“Sure, yeah,” he says dispassionately. He fishes out his phone again and hands it over. “Do what you kids do with these things, I’m pretty terrible with phones,” he exaggerates. Luke is slow to hang his head to type, but quick to do the actual typing. “I don’t check it much, kid, so don’t get offended,” he adds, not at all in control of all his excessive evasive maneuvers. The _if I ignore your calls_ part goes unspoken, and he sees its impact in the defensive narrowing of Luke’s eyes and the droop in his smile. Han looks away, reading the graffiti on the wall above Luke’s head without comprehending the words. “I better get going. You enjoy the rest of the show.” He claps a hand to the side of Luke’s arm in a decidedly less intimate grip than before.

Luke doesn’t flinch. “Yeah, I will.”

Han waits a few seconds more, just to see if Luke changes his mind, because it almost seems like he might. Maybe Luke _does_ want to fuck, and he’s just insecure and awkward about it.

But Han is too close to escaping to risk exposing himself again, so he makes a move for the door. He almost forgets his phone, but Luke hands it back to him. Their hands slide over the metal surface and each other, a spark that’s just short of electric shock shivering up and into Han’s heartbeat.

He’s biting his tongue in frustration by the time he makes it out to the van to properly run away.


	2. Chapter 2

By Thursday, there’s a grand total of two text messages from Luke sitting on Han’s phone, received and read but not responded to.

_RA is playing uptown next week. I’m going. Hope you can, too_

That’s the first one. Han looks at it a lot, because there’s no punctuation mark at the end of the last sentence, and it seems like an intentional choice. Luke seems like the kind of guy to text in grammatically correct sentences. Had he written an exclamation point and then erased it? Or a period? Was he holding back on enthusiasm or trying to seem less formal?

The second message is apparently some kind of picture. Han can’t actually see the picture, because his phone is old and broken, so all that shows up is a little box icon, which he knows from experience is what happens when people send him pictures. This keeps him up at night twice. What kind of picture did Luke send him? Was it a picture of his face? Was he smiling? Was he trying to look sexy? Was it a picture of some other part of him that Han has yet to see? Was it just a flyer for the Rebel Alliance show on Thursday?

He would probably respond to the messages a lot sooner if he didn’t have to jump the hurdle of not being able to see what kind of picture Luke sent. The content of the picture would drastically change the tone of his response.

So he puts off responding. He finds out from Chewie where the Rebel Alliance show is and how many bands are playing. From that information, he figures out what time Rebel Alliance is probably going on stage, so that he can arrive in time to see and support the band, but avoid getting there early enough to seem like a desperate guy with too much time on his hands. 

And then he buries himself in stocking produce for a few days. He hasn’t decided whether or not he’s going, all he’s decided is that he’ll make up his mind by 10 pm on Thursday.

At 10 pm on Thursday, wiping his hands on his tightest jeans in the van outside the venue, he reminds himself that going to the show doesn’t mean he’s in over his head and catching _feelings_ for anybody. It just means that he genuinely enjoys hardcore shows from time to time if he doesn’t have to work during them. And also that he’s calculated his best odds for getting laid, which involve just _happening_ to be in a place that’s conveniently close enough to Luke to touch.

When he gets inside, Rebel Alliance is already onstage. He finds Luke easily; he’s at the edge of a circle pit, right where the action is happening and looking like he’s having the time of his life. The kids running around in circles bump into him, and he shoves them on their way with laughter on his face. Han wonders if this is what Luke would have been like at the show last weekend if Han hadn’t been around to put a damper on his night. He feels a flicker of regret about coming, but then some rampaging idiot on steroids barrels into Luke, and the crowd swells around the impact like a lymph around a wound, spitting the guy back out into the pit, but Han can’t see Luke. He must have gone down, and nobody’s helping him up off the floor.

Han rushes in to where he last had eyes on Luke and bends down with an arm extended to join all the other hands being offered to assist people who still on the floor. The non-stop tide of the crowd makes it hard to get up; Han knows this from experience, but Luke probably doesn’t, and Han can’t stop himself from worrying that Luke is in distress down there in the darkness where he can’t even make out the light shine of his blond hair.

A hand clutches firmly around his, and Han pulls, stupidly excited to see that it’s Luke he’s fished out from the mess. But Luke looks stupidly excited, too, and Han doesn’t have time to question if maybe Luke is simply high on the excitement of the show and not glad to see him at all, because the next moment, Luke is slamming full-force into him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt, and shaking him. “You came!” Luke shouts.

It’s the taste of his shout that makes Han realize how stretched wide his own mouth is with a happy grin. He definitely didn’t realize how badly he’d wanted to see Luke until this very moment. It’s overwhelming. He makes fists in the shoulders of Luke’s tank top and pulls him in tight for a real hug. Someone’s bony elbow jams into his back, and he doesn’t even care. He would kiss Luke right here, right now, if they weren’t in the middle of a pit full of people who might make Luke feel a little less welcome after seeing that. He’s been wanting to kiss Luke since last weekend, and the truth of that fact slams into Han’s chest harder than any of the punches to his kidneys as kids continue their stomping around the circle pit behind him.

But Rebel Alliance’s songs are notoriously short, so the punches to his kidneys slow down when the music stops a second later, and the pressure in his chest dies down a little, too, in the relative quiet. Any second now, he’ll find his dignity again and make sure that Luke knows he wasn’t waiting all week just to see the pretty way his skin shifts over his neck when he ducks his head to the side like that.

“Hey, Luke!” The voice comes from all around them, like the voice of God. It’s probably telling that Han’s instinct is to hold onto Luke tighter for protection instead of pushing him away in denial that anything is going on here. Luke turns to look at the stage, where Leia is panting into the microphone. “Is this the guy?”

Han drops his handfuls of Luke’s shirt immediately, standing politely by Luke’s side. The crowd hasn’t really figured out who she’s talking to yet, but they’re all looking around, and their eyes are bound to fall on Luke and Han’s guilty expressions any second now. Han tries to focus on that, rather than figuring out the mess of emotions relating to the fact that Luke has apparently talked about him to his sister. It’s scary on the safety front in case Leia decides to kill him. It’s threatening on the freedom front in case Luke is actually wanting to start a _relationship_ with him, and that’s why he talked to his sister. And it’s kind of thrilling on the prospects front, because it means Luke’s been thinking about him as much as Han has been thinking about the shift of skin across Luke’s neck when he ducks his head to the side and smiles bashfully like that. But yeah, also, the crowd is going to figure them out any second now, and the situation will be uncomfortable just because he hates being the center of attention. There’s a reason he’s a roadie and not an actual musician.

“Yeah,” Luke shouts, completely giving away their position. He looks mortified, and it only gets worse as heads turn their way and a cheap spotlight finds them. Han tries to find comfort in Luke’s mortification. Even if Han doesn’t have the control here, it’s not like Luke does either. Luke looks so resolutely at the stage, like he’s afraid to look at Han, even though they’re still standing suspiciously close and Han can’t keep his eyes off him.

Leia prowls across the stage like a tiny wild cat. Han senses she’s pointing at him, so he looks her way, blinking through the sweat crowding his eyes. “You better be good to him. Buy him flowers. Have lots of babies.” Luke’s head ducks even further down, but Han can tell he’s laughing, because he’s laughing, too. It’s a weird feeling, to laugh despite all the thoughts in his head telling him to run away. Despite the stares, the threat of a formidable potential enemy, the knowledge that Luke has clearly talked extensively about wanting to date him, and the joke about babies, all Han wants to do is crowd Luke in tight and close and taste his breath again, to feel him folded up underneath him. “I now pronounce you boyfriend and boyfriend,” Leia announces before he has a chance to find the will to defend himself in any way. She makes a weird cross-blessing symbol in the air and then starts jumping up and down. “This one is for everyone who grew up feeling different,” she yells, before the band launches right into another song.

The noise is deafening after the brief reprieve of stage banter, and the crowd surges again, sending Han stumbling straight into Luke, who holds onto him for balance with two bruising grips on Han’s forearms. They’re not in the spotlight anymore. All they’re left with is the awkwardness of having just been deemed a couple by Luke’s sister and the burn of longing they’ve obviously both been experiencing for several days and can’t deny anymore.

Han pulls Luke away from the center of the crowd until they’re in a spot that’s sparsely populated enough to stand up straight. He’s just about to suggest that they get out of here and find someplace quiet when he remembers, with painful clarity, how all Luke had ultimately wanted last time was his _phone number_. He probably doesn’t want to go someplace quiet. Hell, Han shouldn’t even be pulling him away from the center of the action.

But Luke just stands next to him, looking up at him as if waiting for a cue, so Han bites the bullet. “Wanna go chat somewhere after? Get a milkshake or something?”

Luke breaks into that beautiful bright grin, and Han can’t fight the spread of a mirroring smile on his own face.

They don’t even wait for the end of Rebel Alliance’s set. There’s a frozen yogurt place down the street, and as they walk there, Han asks about Luke’s week, finds out that he’s in community college, that he was adopted and only found Leia through an adoption registry a couple years ago, that it took him so long to go to one of Leia’s shows because he always assumed they’d be scary and homophobic.

The frozen yogurt place is closed, which Han could have predicted if he’d been thinking more about the fact that it’s past ten on a weeknight in the suburbs and less about the prospect of actually dating this incredibly cute and sexy guy who he randomly ran into and hasn’t stopped thinking about ever since.

“Do you believe in fate?” Luke asks, tugging playfully at the locked door of the yogurt shop.

The question startles Han, because nothing has ever made him even consider the possibility of fate until last weekend, but Luke is looking sort of suggestively at Han’s mouth, so Han starts to realize that Luke doesn’t mean anything heavy and serious at all. He means _this frozen yogurt shop closed early so that we have nowhere to go but back to someone’s bedroom_.

“I’m starting to,” Han answers, pressing Luke up against the cold glass door and bending down to ghost his lips across Luke’s. His hands find Luke’s waist all too easily, his fingers slipping under the widely gaping cut-out sleeves of his shirt and touching skin that’s so soft it makes Han choke on air.

Luke hums or whines or something somewhere in between. Han chases the sound with his mouth, pressing in tightly against Luke’s lips until they part and draw him in, another breathless sound escaping between them. “You have your own place?” Luke barely breaks away to ask, voice high and breathless.

Han laughs, chewing on Luke’s lip and making a mental note to confess that he’s not actually thirty years old. “No. You?”

Luke’s arms wind heavily around Han’s neck, but the pressure feels perfect. Han just needs Luke’s legs wrapped around his waist and a lot less clothing, and they’ll be good to go. “No,” he sighs, not sounding too disappointed as Han’s mouth travels across his jaw and down his neck. “How about your van?”

A possessive twist in Han’s gut makes him slide his arms even further under Luke’s shirt, until he’s cupping his shoulder blades. “If that’s where fate wants us,” he says, not caring if he’s sounding smart at all. “I really wanted to get on my knees and suck your cock, but there’s not enough room for that in the van, so I guess we’ll have to work with what we’ve got.”

Luke pushes him away, but it’s only so that he can grab Han by the elbow and guide him right back down the street they came up.

On the walk back to the venue, Han tells Luke that he’s actually twenty-five, lists his favorite bands upon request, and asks Luke what picture he sent via text. Luke blushes when he confesses that it was a mirror selfie, and that he’d hated himself for days after sending it, because he thought Han must have thought he looked ugly or pathetic or something.

At that point, Han has to push Luke up against the side of the van and kiss him so hard he stops talking.

The door slides open easily, and they fall onto the floor between the seats. Once they’re locked inside, Luke’s hands find Han’s ass real quick, pulling him in closer and wrapping his legs around Han’s at the same time. “I could sit on the seat,” Luke gasps, while Han works steadily at sucking a mark into the soft, pale skin of his neck.

Han has to release the skin from between his teeth to murmur, “What?” He’s mesmerized by the shadowy mark between the moles on Luke’s skin and decides Luke needs more.

“You could still get on your knees, if I sit on—,” but Luke cuts off mid-sentence when Han sucks in a new patch of skin, closer to his throat and even softer against his tongue. It takes a minute for Han to remember that Luke said anything at all, and when he does, he smiles, happy to have Luke already asking for what he wants, even if it’s something Han mentioned wanting first.

Han doesn’t really want to stop leaving marks on Luke’s neck, but the prospect of tasting his cock makes it easy to give up his spot and move so that he can arrange Luke on the back bench seat. Even in the dim light, Han can see Luke digging his nails into the plush of the cushion instead of helping. He sets one hand around Luke’s cock, the other hand under his balls, and then presses the side of his face against the perfect length of his cock, acclimating himself to the heat and softness and scent, acclimating Luke to the touch of skin and the promise of more.

He loves the way that Luke clutches the edge of the seat while Han wraps his mouth around the head of Luke’s cock, but he’s head over heels with the way that Luke’s hand digs into Han’s hair and squeezes handfuls of it when Han starts up a tight, slurping rhythm. He’s absolutely _drooling_ over the way Luke’s hips nudge up and fuck his mouth in tiny, restrained motions when he gets close, and the gasping, whining sounds he makes when he comes are the only sounds Han wants to hear for the rest of this life.

Han is burning from the inside out, listening to Luke’s bursts of breath as he comes down, feeling him softly twitch and pulse in his hand while Han’s own cock keeps dripping against the front of his boxers, desperate for attention.

Luke squirms in his seat like he wants something, so Han kisses him. The taste on his mouth must drive Luke wild, because he pulls Han up with surprising strength, deepening the kiss into something filthy and reaching to place his hand low on Han’s stomach, inching lower and lower.

Luke feels him out curiously for just a short second, Han’s breath catching as he lets it happen and accepts his fate of a soft, curious hand job, whatever Luke wants. It won’t take much to get him there. But then Luke melts under him all over again, rubbing his palm and fingers all over Han’s dick, sending hot shivers all over Han’s body. Luke asks nicely, so Han climbs up onto the seat and curls up against the roof of the van, straddling with one knee on either side of Luke’s slouched torso, pants open and boxers shoved down just enough to let Luke take him in his wet, sucking mouth.

It’s a strain to stay still, to hold himself upright with a forearm on the back of the seat, to clench his thighs and keep his hips in place, torefrain from fucking Luke’s mouth. His free hand skitters over Luke’s face, feeling muscles working under skin, feeling sweat at his temples, feeling fluttering eyelashes against his cheek. The hand that Luke doesn’t have on Han’s cock keeps roaming over the backs of his thighs and ass, and Han wonders if Luke will ever stop mapping him out, will ever find an end to his curiosity.

Han has never liked feeling stuck in his life before, but there must be something different about holding himself in awkward angles, spine bent against the roof, holding himself still just to keep giving Luke a taste of everything he wants. When he feels himself close to the edge, he pushes Luke’s mouth off with the back of his hand and works his fist around himself, gasping at the feeling of Luke’s thick, wet spit gathering and sliding in the spaces between his fingers and against his cock, all the way down to where Luke’s hand still greedily holds on.

Han asks if Luke wants it in his mouth and barely holds on for the answer before everything draws up tight and white-hot and gutting, and then he’s coming, floating, no longer sure who’s holding him up at all. His vision is static, and it’s too dark to see where all of it lands, but he feels Luke’s tongue and lips curling around him enough to know that most of it ends up exactly where Luke asked for it. A satisfied warmth seeps into his bloodstream, and he collapses low enough to find Luke’s mouth in the dark with his own.

Han tries to laugh when his casual groping leads him to discover that Luke is hard again, but he’s mostly overwhelmed with how much he wants to make him come again. “You should come back to my place,” Han decides, even though that means midnight showers and breakfast with his parents and watching his dog fall in love with Luke. He’s got lights in his room, so he can see the marks he’s leaving on Luke’s skin, plus he has sheets to spread him out on and plenty of room to get on his knees.

He can barely make out the white of Luke’s grin. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he says, all warm and fuzzy.

Han kisses the words off his lips. “Me, too.” 


End file.
